John McCullagh April 30, 2004
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          Ballad of William Bloat

In a mean abode, on the Shankill Road
Lived a man named William Bloat
He had a wife, the curse of his life
Who continually ‘got his goat’
Till one day at dawn, with her nightdress on
He cut her bleedin’ throat!

With a razor gash, he settled her hash
Oh never was crime so quick
But the drip, drip, drip, on the pillowslip
Of her life blood – made him sick.
And the pool of gore, on the bedroom floor
Grew clotted and cold and thick.

And still he was glad he’d done what he had
When she lay there stiff and still
But a sudden awe of the vengeful law
Struck his heart with an icy chill.
So to finish the fun – so well begun
He resolved – himself, to kill.

He took the sheet from his wife’s coul’ feet
And twisted it to a rope
And he hanged himself, from the pantry shelf
‘Twas an easy end, let’s hope!
In the face of death – with his dying breath
He solemnly – cursed the Pope!

But the strangest turn to the whole concern
Is only just beginning
He went to Hell, but his wife got well
And she’s still alive – and sinning!

For the razor blade, was foreign made
But the sheet -was Belfast Linen.

[by Raymond Calvert]

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